


Aziraphale Doesn't Like Christmas

by Jade_Waters



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is the Rudolph of Angels, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crowley Takes Care of Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ducks, Families of Choice, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Sweet, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Waters/pseuds/Jade_Waters
Summary: It seems paradoxical, an angel not liking Christmas, but nevertheless Crowley knows it to be true. It’s been true almost as long as Christmas has been A Thing, and it's high time Crowley figured out why.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 433
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	Aziraphale Doesn't Like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere in the late 1990s or early 2000s, before the Antichrist is born.   
> I think Crowley and Aziraphale are both well aware they love each other but obviously aren't free to be open about that. In this fic, they can be read as ace or not, as you prefer, but they're definitely romantic.   
> Please enjoy!

Aziraphale doesn’t like Christmas.

It seems paradoxical, an angel not liking Christmas, but nevertheless Crowley knows it to be true. It’s been true almost as long as Christmas has been A Thing.

Of course the angel won’t admit to disliking Christmas, but one picks up on that sort of thing after a thousand years or so.

Personally, Crowley doesn’t mind Christmas so much. You’d think all the Good Will and Cheer would grate on him – and it does, a bit – but the possibilities for mischief abound. Plenty of greed and gluttony floating about. Fights over the last toy on the shelf, spouses bickering over decorations, the anguish of instruction manuals after the gift opening’s over. He’d even started a “War on Christmas” over in America just by suggesting that “Happy Holidays” didn’t cut it as a seasonal greeting.

Black Friday was all on the humans, though. Crowley’d had nothing to do with it.

But Aziraphale, well. A withdrawn Aziraphale is an unhappy Aziraphale, and he is never more withdrawn than during December. It’s like watching a cozy fire gutter out, the way he tucks himself away.

Whatever the reason, each year like clockwork Aziraphale gets increasingly tense as the day approaches. Around the beginning of each December, he begins to decline lunch invitations – politely, always, “Perhaps another time,” but without much explanation. By mid-month, there is no meal-related temptation strong enough to lure the angel out. Not even the Ritz, not even cake. When Crowley stops by the Bookshop instead, he finds Aziraphale busy writing or busy doing inventory or busy, just busy, “So sorry, Crowley.” He seems sincerely regretful to send Crowley away, so the demon doesn’t feel too put out about it. And anyway, he knows come January the angel will be the first to call him up. They’ve had more than one absolutely smashing New Years together.

After several centuries, Crowley’s so intrigued by the phenomenon that he sets about trying to figure out why, exactly, Aziraphale so dislikes this most angelic of holidays.

It’s not the carols – Aziraphale loves to sing, and he loves humans singing. He was in the church the first time Silent Night was sung by a full choir, and the poor angel was moved straight to tears. He could barely even tell Crowley about it without tearing up all over again.

Although he lacks direct evidence, Crowley’s pretty sure it’s not the decorations. Silly, sparkly baubles are right up the angel’s alley, and he’s got plenty of angel figurines around the Bookshop, so Crowley doubts he’s deeply offended by tree toppers. Besides, Aziraphale disliked Christmas before Christmas trees became popular.

It’s certainly not the food. Don’t be ridiculous.

Over coffee one November, Crowley asks, “D’you need any help with blessings over the holidays? I’m sure Upstairs must have quite a list for you. Anyway, I owe you one for Vienna.”

Aziraphale delicately stirs his cocoa a moment before answering, “Oh, that’s kind of you to offer.” Crowley growls and rolls his eyes, but Aziraphale continues, “It’s not necessary, though. I quite enjoy Christmas miracles – they make people so warm and joyful. Lights in the darkness, you know, not so different from Hanukkah.” His eyes are twinkling bright, and Crowley knows he means it.

So, it’s not work, then, either. 

Crowley stays stumped for quite a few years. It’s not the weather (Aziraphale loves snow, of course he does. You should’ve seen him the first time some human showed him snow angels). It’s not gifts (Aziraphale always makes sure all the toy drives in Soho get all they ask for and more). It can’t be Christmas movies because Crowley’s not sure Aziraphale even knows they exist.

Crowley is close to giving up when he finally gets lucky. He’s in a pub minding his own business (which, at the moment, happens to be some scotch that has discovered it’s quite a bit smokier than it thought) when a group of discontent uni kids comes grumbling in, just after exams have wrapped up. They crowd around the table next to his, and he can’t help overhearing them. Not that he tries very hard not to.

“So glad that’s finally over,” one sighs.

“Yeah, but I wish we could just stay in London over break, you know?”

“Couldn’t afford it,” another laughs.

The group jokes a bit about prices in London before the second one circles back, “Still, I hate Christmas. It’s such a load of shit.”

Crowley’s curiosity is peaked. There’s a string there waiting to be pulled, but the group isn’t quite ready to pull it. Their conversation meanders back to exams and classes, so once Crowley’s finished his whisky, he saunters over to do what he does best.

“Pardon me,” he says, sliding his way into the conversation with a bit of magical grease on the wheels. _Strange man,_ the group thinks, _but no harm in a little chat_. “Which one of you lot hates Christmas?”

“I do,” a scrawny, mop-haired boy speaks up.

“And why’s that, exactly?” Crowley asks.

The boy chuckles, aiming for bravado, “Because it sucks. So fake and cliché.”

But Crowley feels the lie, so he lets his power wind its way a little deeper. “Tell me about it?” Crowley encourages.

The cocky façade suddenly falls off the kid’s face. He’s so sad that Crowley feels a bit bad about pulling this out of him, but the boy answers, “I hate my family. Well.” He looks down, hiding the tears welling up in his eyes, “They hate me, maybe, I don’t know – I just. It’s so terrible, having to pretend we’re this big happy family, when we’re not, and they just make me pretend to be what they wish I was the whole time. I can’t stand it.” The girl sitting beside him lays a hand on his shoulder, making sympathetic sounds.

“I can certainly understand difficult family relationships,” Crowley offers. “Anyway, forget about me,” he says to the table. He taps the table twice, and the boy’s wallet has enough pounds in it now that if he wants to stay in London, or come back early, he certainly can.

Crowley heads out into the inky December evening.

*

A new hypothesis of course requires testing.

Crowley would never go so far as to suggest Aziraphale hates, well, anybody. The angel can’t even say “Adversary” without being cheerful (just watching him try makes Crowley smirk). But he’s certainly come to understand over the millennia that Aziraphale has a difficult relationship with the other angels. He doesn’t like to talk about them. Not in a “can’t give you that information” sort of way, but more of a “let’s talk about something more pleasant” way. When Gabriel comes up, his mouth smiles but his eyes don’t twinkle at all. Aziraphale won’t even look at Crowley if Sandalphon’s the subject.

Since it’s nearly Christmas and Crowley has been thoroughly shooed away from the Bookshop for the season, he decides it’s time to figure out exactly what the angel gets up to for Christmas. This calls for some reconnaissance.

Crowley may sometimes be a snake, but it’s not so difficult to look like a crow instead. The aesthetic is the same, anyway, and he already knows how to fly. If he’s a bit red-tinged and golden-eyed, well, nobody pays much attention to birds in London. He tucks himself into the bird’s shape and hops around with the other crows in Soho. He’s always had a soft spot for corvids – they’re one of the few animals that don’t seem to mind having a demon around. Clever birds.

It doesn’t take long for Crowley to see a distinct uptick in the number of angels coming and going from the Bookshop. Gabriel, of course, and Uriel, and a few Crowley doesn’t recognize. Just walking in for a quick chat before disappearing again. It all makes Aziraphale extremely anxious. He spills his cocoa twice, knocks over a stack of French Enlightenment authors, and one day he even sells a book. Finally, Crowley sees what all the fuss has been about: on Christmas Eve, the angel carefully, reluctantly tidies up his shop before he locks it and heads off to Heaven’s front door. He goes up and doesn’t come back.

Crowley resumes his usual man-shape. The Bookshop door’s a bit reluctant to let him in, but he reassures it, “Everybody’s gone back Upstairs. Nobody’ll know I’m here. I just want to see what’s got him so worked up,” and it opens. He pokes around a bit before finding a drawer in Aziraphale’s backroom desk which both does and doesn’t want to be discovered. “Come on,” he mutters to it, “It’s just me.” The drawer sighs a bit and lets Crowley pull it out without complaint. Right on top he finds a pompously golden letter, sparkling with Heavenly grace. “Probably best not to touch that,” Crowley says to himself. Doesn’t matter – he can see well enough it’s an invitation to an annual office Christmas party. “I should’ve known office parties were one of theirs.” He tucks the drawer back in, leaves a little extra blessing on the books on his way out.

Back in crow-shape, Crowley waits around the neighborhood for Aziraphale to return. The poor angel doesn’t stumble back until about dawn on Christmas Day, looking so exhausted Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if he actually sleeps through the day, despite his usual objections.

“Well,” Crowley caws, “That settles that.” He flies the short distance home to Mayfair and begins to plan for next year. 

*

In late August, over lunch, Crowley tells Aziraphale, “I’ve got some business abroad coming up. I’ll be out of town for a while.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, pausing over his tempura, “Where to?”

Crowley smiles pointedly, “Can’t let you thwart me that easily now, can I?”

“Something big then, is it?”

“Just a bit more in-depth than usual. I’m sure you’ll hear about it eventually. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I won’t be popping in for lunch for a few months. London’s all yours for the rest of the year.”

“That’s courteous of you. I suppose I can still call if something comes up?”

“Yup,” Crowley says, popping his ‘p’ and doing his best to pretend ‘courteous’ isn’t a compliment.

A week later, Crowley leaves London.

*

Aziraphale doesn’t hear anything from Crowley all through the fall. It’s not unheard of, but since they’d both settled down in London he’d gotten used to seeing Crowley much more often. He’s certain the demon must be up to something quite nefarious. He checks the Celestial Times and several major human newspapers, but nothing stands out to him as particularly _Crowley_ in nature. For lack of any specific thwarting to do, Aziraphale does his best to bring goodness and kindness into London. For three months straight, the Underground runs on time. Bananas in the grocery stores are that perfect nearly-yellow much more often than usual. Umbrellas break less often, and people find unusual quantities of cash in the pockets of coats just pulled out for the season. The angel encourages professors to give students the benefit of the doubt, and encourages students to get some sleep at night. He encourages politicians to listen to their constituents and do their jobs. He suggests to busy young people that they might call their parents just to chat, and suggests to parents they might remind their children how much they love them, no matter what. To everyone, he sends gentle reminders to enjoy a visit to a park or a lovely dinner with a good friend.

Aziraphale knows that Crowley’s right – the humans mostly do whatever they want, without any input from Above or Below. But he does his best, anyway, and radiates all the love he has for the world and all the people and creatures in it. 

In early December, Gabriel pops in while Aziraphale is reading a newly acquired, very rare misprinted Bible from the 18th century. “You actually read these… things?” he asks.

Aziraphale glances back down at the apparently offensive book. “It’s a Bible?”

Gabriel laughs, “We already know the Great Plan, Aziraphale, what’s the point in reading a human version?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to explain about beauty, so he just shrugs and mutters something about keeping up appearances.

“Anyway,” Gabriel says, clapping him on the shoulder, “I just came down to deliver your invitation to this year’s Christmas party.” He smiles, “Araiel will come by to coordinate drinks, and Uriel will come give you more info about the theme: this year it’s “Do Good, Feel Good” – isn’t that fantastic? Haniel and a few others will probably pass through – plenty of work to do before the end of the quarter, you know. Can’t wait to see you there, buddy.”

Aziraphale accepts the shining invitation with a strained smile. “Sounds lovely. Can’t wait to be there, haha.” And then Gabriel’s gone. Aziraphale sighs and lets his shoulders droop. At least this year he wouldn’t have to worry about Crowley showing up at exactly the wrong moment. Somehow the thought of his Adversary’s absence does not reassure him as much as it perhaps should.

*

On Christmas Eve, Aziraphale is wrapping up his final miracle: a young woman in hospital has just woken up from a coma. Her family is ecstatic. It’s a bit flashy for his taste, but he supposes Christmas deserves a bit of flash. A week ago he’d had something more like the old Hanukkah miracles: the heat in a less fortunate apartment building will stay on through the winter no matter how many payments are missed. He’d poured so much love into that one he thought the bills might all get miraculously paid, too, which might get him a note from Upstairs later, but it will be worth it.

Back in his Bookshop, he’s about to lock up and head Upstairs when Gabriel appears. “Um,” Aziraphale says, articulately.

“We’ve just received some intelligence about a disturbing situation developing in Paris, France,” Gabriel says.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, wondering what it could be that would bring Gabriel down so suddenly.

“According to reports, the archbishop of Notre Dame de Paris has er…” he pulls out his notes to double check what he’s about to say, “Started preaching to ducks? Anyway he’s got quite a following of… ducks… and it’s a problem. Definitely not the sort of thing that inspires confidence in the Almighty.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in surprise. “Ducks?”

“That’s what it says. I don’t know what’s going on, but unfortunately I need you to check it out right away, Aziraphale. I’m afraid you’ll have to miss the Christmas party this year.”

“Oh,” he says, doing his best to frown – he manages alright thanks to his confusion, but isn’t sure he quite makes it to ‘disappointed.’ “I understand. I’ll be sorry to miss it, of course.”

“Thanks for taking one for the team, Aziraphale.”

“Well, duty calls, and all that. Nothing to be done about it.”

“That’s right.” Gabriel hands over the report and then he’s gone.

Reading over the report, Aziraphale mutters, “What on Earth…?” Either this report is completely mistaken, or… “Crowley.”

*

Once Aziraphale arrives in Paris, he knows immediately this is Crowley’s work. He finds the archbishop preaching from the middle of the Pont de l'Archevéché. The Seine is _filled_ with ducks. Ducks of all kinds, swans, and geese, even. There are so many ducks the boat traffic has come to a standstill. Traffic on land is no better – the tourists love this new duck preacher so much they’ve filled up the bridge and stopped cars and bikes from getting across.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale mutters to himself. He’s not sure how, exactly, Crowley’s managed this fiasco, but he supposes the easiest solution is to find the demon himself. He reaches out until he feels that familiar warm, dark coil and –

Finds himself standing outside a café. Or, Le Reminet, specifically. Quite a nice little restaurant not far at all from the cathedral. Aziraphale’s been here many times. They have quite excellent oysters.

The angel looks around a moment before he spots his Adversary. He tuts and rolls his eyes hard when he sees him, but he can’t quite stop a little smile. Crowley is, as ever, sprawled out three times as far as necessary, darkening a table by the window just inside, a bottle of red wine half-drank beside him. When Crowley looks his way, he smirks and waves, as impudent as he can manage. Aziraphale does his best to scowl as he marches into the restaurant.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley greets him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aziraphale is just about to ask what the devil he thinks he’s up to with the ducks when he sees the oysters on the table. Waiting for him. They must be, because Crowley doesn’t really eat oysters unless Aziraphale specifically invites him to, and anyway he hasn’t touched the ones on the table. “Oh,” he says instead.

“Care to sit down?” Crowley prompts when he goes far too long without saying anything else, just staring at oysters.

He looks at Crowley, at the restaurant, at the oysters again, and it all clicks into place. _“Crowley,”_ he breathes with so much feeling he knows the demon’s going to tell him to shut it if he says another word. He swallows instead, and sits.

“Ducks?” he asks as the waiter brings him his own wine glass.

Crowley smirks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Figure all creatures deserve to hear the Good Word, don’t you?”

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, my dear, you are perfectly ridiculous. I don’t suppose you’ll let the poor man get back to his usual work?”

“He’ll be alright – the ducks will soon find better things to do, and the archbishop will wander back into his church. People will chalk it up to a PR stunt or something and forget the whole thing.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I thought Gabriel might be losing his mind when he told me what was happening.”

Crowley can’t help but snicker at that. He calls the waiter back again and they order a full dinner. Aziraphale enjoys the oysters, followed by an excellent salmon, and poached pear for dessert. Crowley orders the duck and laughs at the look Aziraphale gives him. He orders the crème brûlée, too, mostly so Aziraphale can try it. After, while Aziraphale is sipping chocolat chaud, Crowley snags the check. “My treat,” he says when the angel begins to protest.

“Would you like to see the lights on Champs-Elysées, angel?”

“The lights?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know about the Christmas lights.”

“Well, I… I’ve never been to Paris at Christmas.”

“Oh, angel! We are going to see the lights. Come on,” Crowley says.

They walk along the Seine, wine-warm and chatting companionably. Aziraphale is telling Crowley about some excellent gaufres à la chantilly he’d had once in the Place de la Concorde. As they come around the Jardin des Tuileries, he catches sight of the Champs-Elysées. He gasps, eyes going wide a moment before he dashes ahead to look straight down the avenue. “Oh, Crowley!” he yells back, “Look!”

The whole avenue is lit up, lights on the trees along both sides twinkling and shining, with the Arc de Triomphe standing as the dramatic backdrop. Even the cars rushing about add to the glow. The cloudy sky above is purple with all the light.

Crowley saunters over, amused. “Told you,” he says.

“So you did!” Aziraphale exclaims, terribly pleased. He hooks his arm around Crowley’s as they stand together in the median. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Crowley.”

They stand there a while, admiring the view, until Crowley says quietly, “It’s still early, angel. I think there’s a Haagen Dazs toward the arc these days, if you’re interested.”

Aziraphale looks up at him and his eyes twinkle at least as much as the lights. “Ice cream sounds like a splendid idea.”

They walk slowly up the avenue, arm in arm. They peak into the many bright shops. Everywhere is busy with people enjoying the lights and squeezing in their last minute gift shopping; they both enjoy the swell of humanity on Christmas Eve. They wonder at how much Paris has changed over the centuries. “Still the only place to get decent crepes,” Aziraphale insists.

“As long as you’re not risking your neck to get them, angel,” Crowley teases.

“That was _one_ time.”

Crowley smirks.

At Haagen Dazs, Crowley gets a single scoop of what must surely be the best coffee ice cream on Earth, and Aziraphale opts for the new vanilla-caramel flavor. They find a bench outside to eat.

The crowds quiet down as the evening grows late. At nearly midnight, snowflakes begin to fall in gentle fat clumps. Aziraphale is filled with such peace and love he doesn’t know what to do but press his weight against Crowley’s side.

After a moment of holding very still, Crowley shifts and drapes his arm across the bench behind angel’s shoulders, comforting and warm and oh, so carefully unrestrictive. The gesture reminds Aziraphale of sheltering wings. He snuggles more deliberately into Crowley’s side. 

“I suppose you must’ve figured it out last Christmas,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” Crowley deflects.

Aziraphale smiles. “It’s alright. I was so tired when I came home last year I didn’t think much of it, but my door was rather conspiratorial, and my books were _smug_. Any other time I would’ve noticed you’d been there while I was gone.”

“Sorry for snooping,” Crowley offers.

“Don’t be. Crowley, really. It’s…” he looks down, trying to put his words in order, in some way Crowley will accept. “Did you know, every year Gabriel reenacts the Annunciation?”

“He does _not._ ”

“He does. And that’s just the start of it. Plus, I never get to see what the humans do, and it’s so lovely, Crowley. They’re so lovely.”

Crowley looks at the marshmallow of an angel beside him, then out – at the lights, the snow, the people walking hand-in-hand. “They’re not half bad,” he says, smiling gently.

Aziraphale puffs out a little cloud of breath before turning his too-fond gaze toward his companion. Quickly, before Crowley can react, he kisses him gently on the cheek.

Crowley makes an absolutely scandalized face, can’t stop himself from blushing something awful, and Aziraphale laughs. “Thank you, my dear. This has been a _wonderful_ evening.”

“Well,” Crowley says, pulling himself together, “Joyeux Noël, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile crinkles even more. “Happy Christmas, Crowley.”


End file.
